


Momma's Gift

by MaverickLover2



Category: Maverick (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6013567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverickLover2/pseuds/MaverickLover2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Momma leaves her youngest son an irreplaceable gift, Bart has a hard time holding on to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Opals

The little boy tried to walk down the dusty road without kicking up too much dirt. That wasn’t an easy task when you’re five years old and you’ve just helped bury your momma. What made it harder was his older brother following him and doing the exact opposite. They walked on for a while that way, one kicking and the other avoiding. Suddenly he heard Pappy’s voice boom down from the wagon, “Bret Maverick! Stop kicking dirt on your brother!”

The kicking stopped immediately. At the tender age of seven Bret knew better than to ignore a warning from Pappy. Especially on a day like today. Neither of the boys feared their father but there was a healthy respect for Beauregard Maverick, particularly within the Maverick clan. Of course temptation proved to be too much for the younger boy and he turned in his tracks and stuck his tongue out at his brother. That act was met with a similar tone. “Bart Maverick! Put your tongue back in your mouth where it belongs!”

This was the first time Pappy yelled at them since Momma got sick. Of course, with Momma gone nothing would ever be the same again, but at least their father sounded more like the man they knew and loved rather than the quiet, soft-spoken person he had become while Momma lingered on during her illness. The most important things in the world to Pappy were Momma, his boys Bret and Bart, and poker. Not always in that order. But for the last three months nothing had come before Momma.

Bret caught up to Bart and whispered conspiratorially,  “Sounds like Pappy is back to being Pappy.”

“Mmmhmm,” responded Maverick the younger. Relief sounded in that one syllable. Neither of the boys had been sure how to act around their parents, with Momma sick constantly and Pappy sounding like someone they didn’t know. Often they had taken refuge with their Uncle Bentley, who had a son about their age also named Beau. At Uncle Ben’s house they could be high-spirited young boys, running and shouting and making all the messes that boys make. None of the constant “Shhhh! Momma isn’t well!” or “Can’t you be quiet? Momma is sleeping!”

There was lingering sickness and death in the house for so long that Bret and Bart almost couldn’t remember a time without it. And everything had seemed worse these last few days, when the doctor had finally determined that Momma didn’t have much longer to live. So for them, when 5 minutes felt like an eternity, three months was about as far back as they could recall. No wonder both their spirits were lifted to hear Pappy scold them in what they considered a normal tone of voice. Maybe now that Momma was gone things would get back to their regular routine.

They would miss their mother, of course; she was the joy and comfort in both their lives. Especially for little Bart, who constantly seemed to be sick with one thing or another. Momma was always there with kind words, a comforting voice, homemade soup or a wet towel to soothe a fevered brow. Sometimes Bret almost forgot he had a brother, Bart spent so much time at home in bed. But when Bart was well Bret did his best to take good care of him, including protecting him from their sometimes rambunctious cousin Beau. Pappy had always insisted that the Mavericks look out for each other; kin was more important than almost anything. Except when it came to poker.

Poker may not seem like an appropriate pastime for young boys, but for the Mavericks it was not only the best game but the only game. When each of his boys had been old enough to hold the cards in their hands, Beauregard taught them every aspect of the sport. Poker was an honorable game, played among honorable men.  Cheating was only taught so that dishonorable men could be caught doing it and disciplined. And Pappy knew all the ways to cheat and not get caught. Which, of course, he made sure that he passed along to both brothers, just in case someone was trying to take advantage of them.

Beau drove the wagon and watched his boys walk. It was good to see them annoying each other, playing around without a care in the world. Life had been too dark and gray ever since Belle got ill with a fever she just couldn’t shake. It began to dawn on him that he didn’t know a thing about raising his sons, and that responsibility was now his. He had to be accessible when the boys needed him, had to set a good moral example for them. Which, of course, encompassed the lifestyle that he embraced – that of a poker playing confidence man. With an eye for the ladies. Oh, he loved Belle with all his heart – when Maverick men fell in love they fell hard – but that didn’t stop his appreciation of the fairer sex.

His brother Ben said something to him and he hadn’t heard. So Ben repeated himself. “Come over for supper tonight. Lily Mae’s making enough food for everyone.” Lily Mae was Ben’s housekeeper. Beau realized he would have to get one of those, too, so there was someone at home when he was out.  Of course he had in mind a much younger version of Lily Mae.

“Sure. Maybe we can play a little poker afterward.”

Ben looked at his brother askance. “You just put Belle in the ground. You think that’s a good idea so soon?”

Beau snorted in disagreement. “Got to get back to normal. Haven’t played since Belle got sick. I need to sharpen my skills so I can make us some money.”

Ben knew his brother was right. Beau needed money coming in the door; he wouldn’t continue living off of Ben any longer. It was bad enough taking funds from your brother when you needed them and couldn’t work; now that Belle was gone Beau wouldn’t accept any more ‘handouts.’ Ben gave in as he usually did and agreed to poker. There was no arguing with Beauregard once he made up his mind; all of the Mavericks were stubborn but Beau was the worst. Ben could see that trait in Bret, not so much in Bart. Maybe Belle’s influence had a tighter hold on her youngest son.

The boys continued walking back to the house in front of the wagon that held Pappy, Uncle Ben and a very solemn cousin Beau. Beau had lost his own mother when he was young and didn’t remember anything about her. Maybe that’s why he was so quiet through the service and on the trip home. He was both sad for his cousins and envious of them – they knew their mother and would remember her. He hadn’t been given that chance.

Once the little house came into view Bret and Bart took off running. Beau jumped out of the wagon and chased after them. He didn’t want to finish in third place in a three-man race. The older Mavericks exchanged looks and Pappy shook his head. “Wish I still had that much energy,” the elder Beau said. “I sure wouldn’t waste it on running.”

Ben tried not to laugh. “I know just what you would waste it on, Beau. How long before you find some sweet young thing to romance now that Belle’s gone? Do you really think that’s what’s best for your boys?”

“Now Bentley, don’t try and mother me. You know I don’t like it. I have more respect for Belle than that.”

“I should hope so. The last thing you need right now in your life is a woman. Unless it’s a housekeeper, of course. Lily Mae knows several women who would be glad to help out.” Pappy looked sideways at Ben. “I just bet she does. All way over the age of consent and ugly as a doorknob.” The horses came to a halt in front of the cabin, which the boys had run into some time ago.  Beau and Ben climbed down and went in the door.

Bart was lying in the temporary bed Momma had used in the past month, near the fire, wrapped up in her blankets and crying profusely. Bret was doing his best to comfort his little brother and Beau stood watching them both, his hands in his pockets. “What’s all this?” Pappy asked as he moved Bret aside and picked up Bart. Bart continued his sobbing. Bret and Beau backed away, preferring to let the senior Maverick handle this. “What seems to be the problem, son?” The tone had changed in Pappy’s voice. It was quieter, and more sympathetic. He turned Bart over and held him close, gently rocking the boy. Bart’s crying slowed down, finally stopping. Beau sat down on the bed, Bart now curled up in his lap and arms. “Why now?”

The little boy gradually choked out the words “Because Mommas gone and she’s never comin’ back.” Beauregard wasn’t one to lie to his sons, even now, and agreed with him instead. “That’s right boy, she’s not comin’ back to this earth. But Momma’s gonna be in heaven watchin’ us and makin’ sure that we don’t get in too much trouble. An angel watchin’ over us. And we’ll get to see her again when we go to heaven.”

Bart started sobbing all over again. “But you always said none of us Mavericks would ever go anywhere but hell. How are we ever gonna see Momma?”

Uncle Bentley looked at Beau and shook his head. “That’s what comes of fillin’ their heads with things they’re not old enough to understand,” Ben said to no one in particular.

Beau ignored his brother’s remark. “Well, son, that part about us all goin’ to hell is probably true. But Momma’s gonna be an angel, and she’ll find a way to be with us.”  He continued to hold his youngest as they talked. Bart’s sobbing tapered off and he lay in his father’s arms, listening intently. He couldn’t remember Pappy ever holding him.  Things like that were always left to Momma. Bart enjoyed it as long as he could, until his father abruptly shifted positions and set him down on the floor. Then Bart stood up, brushed himself off, and wiped away the remainder of his tears with his shirt sleeve. The crying fit stopped as fast as it started. A few seconds later he was busily running after Bret and Beau, who had found more interesting things to do than watch a little brothers meltdown.

Ben watched his brother gaze after the boys and shook his head again. “Beauregard, you will never cease to amaze me.”

Beau turned his attention to Bentley. “Get on home now so that Lily Mae can question you incessantly about the service. Take Bret with you, please. I want time alone with Bart. I have things to discuss with him without those other two mischief makers around.” A thoughtful look came over Pappy’s face.  “And make sure that Bret behaves. Last time they were alone together one of ‘em got the foolish notion to set a chicken on fire ‘cause they were hungry.” Pappy remembered Bret’s and Beau’s faces when he found them out back and threatened to whale the living daylights out of them if they ever tried anything that stupid again. He struggled hard not to laugh at the terror that his threat struck in their hearts; neither boy had misbehaved since the incident.

Ben nodded somberly and walked to the door. “Beau. Bret. Come on home with me now.”

The two older boys appeared at the door almost instantly. Neither spoke but Bret stretched out his hand as if to touch his father on the arm. Beau reached down and picked Bret up until he was eye level with his father. “You behave, you hear? We’ll be over soon and we can all play some poker.” Bret lit up with a dimpled grin, and Beau could see a forerunner of the charm that was surely going to get his oldest son into many a scrape with a lovely lass. “Yes, sir,” came Bret’s immediate answer. At last, Pappy was ready to play cards. Beau set the boy back on the ground and admonished him and  little Beau “No burning chickens! Lily Mae is cooking supper.”

The cousins nodded in vigorous agreement. They were going to play poker. Both were thrilled; it had been a long time since anyone in the house shuffled a deck of cards. And the prospect of all of them together was almost too exciting to think about. It was a real treat to play with Beau and Ben at the same time; watching the two older Mavericks battle each other was an experience not to be missed. 

Once Ben and the older boys left, Beau had to go looking for his youngest son. He found Bart sitting on the floor of the bedroom humming to himself and playing Maverick Solitaire. He appeared to have fully recovered from his earlier crying outbreak. Beau hoped that the conversation he was about to have with his five-year-old wouldn’t resuscitate it.

“Pappy.” Bart looked up and smiled ruefully at his father. “Beat it every time, Pappy.”

Beau nodded in affirmation. “Of course you do, son. That’s why we call it ‘Maverick Solitaire.’” He waited until Bart finished the game before starting up again. “There’s something that Momma wanted me to tell you about. Do you remember the gold cuff links that she had? The pair that belonged to her daddy?” Bart nodded his little head. Momma had shown him the cuff links and told him the story surrounding them. They were beautiful gold ovals with a black opal set in the middle. Bart had immediately wanted to touch them but Momma wouldn’t let him for fear they would be lost.

“Well, Momma wanted to be sure that I saved them for you.” Bart’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. Beau opened the small box he held in his hand and the cuff links were inside, looking just as they had on that first viewing. This time when Bart reached out to touch them, Pappy allowed it. The small fingers gently stroked the stones, feeling the smoothness of the opals. _’Momma wanted me to have them,_ ’ he thought to himself. _‘They’re mine. Not Brother Bret’s. MINE.’_ He looked up at Pappy and smiled his best smile. Then Beauregard burst his bubble.

“There’s only one catch, son. I can’t let you keep them until you’re older.” Bart’s face fell and his lower lip trembled. Pappy felt terrible, but he had given his word. “Your mother made me promise. Not until you’re old enough to wear them.” As an afterthought he added “ . . . if you want to.”

The little boy remained solemn. “I will, Pappy. I will.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. After the War

The hard part was supposed to be over. It was six years after the Maverick brothers had been drafted into the Confederate Army, and a year after they had finally been discharged as ‘Galvanized Yankees’ and life was settling into a familiar routine. Get up, eat, pass time until ‘work’. Get thrown out, escorted out or chased out of town; find new town. All the while this was going on Bart and Bret had been more or less traveling together, sharpening their poker skills as they went.

Sometimes one lost and the other won; sometimes they both won or lost. Winning was good – they traveled in style, ate well, smoked the best cigars money could buy. Romanced the most beautiful women. Losing was awful – spending endless days in the saddle, eating meals cobbled together on the trail, ‘borrowing’ any cigar they could find from whatever establishment they were in. And women? Forget it! Gamblers with little or no money did not attract women – at least the kind of women the brothers preferred. And no lady of any sort would go near a down-on-his-luck gambling man. No matter how charming or good looking.

This latest string of bad cards and worse luck had left them tired, hungry, dirty and a little cross with each other. Bart was awake and waiting for the coffee to be ready when Bret finally roused himself out from under his blanket. “Morning sunshine” came Bret’s greeting. Bart just frowned at his older brother.

“Don’t ‘morning sunshine’ me. The ground’s hard and cold and I’m hungry. And saddle sore. Tell me again why we’re doing this?”

Bret chuckled as he stood up and stretched to his full height. “Because we’d rather be playing poker than anything else in the world. With the possible exception of eating real food and sleeping in a real bed. And neither one of us wants to do real work.” Bart thought about Bret’s answer and finally smiled vaguely. “Well – when you put it like that – “

Bret collected his hat and put it on. “Whose turn to make breakfast?”

“Yours,” came the swift reply. “And if you want to cook it you’re gonna’ hafta’ kill it first.” Bart picked up the empty can of beans, last night’s supper, and held it upside down. It was obviously empty.

“Okay, okay, I get it. How about if we settle for coffee until we get to Chloride?”

Bart almost laughed at that. “Like we have a choice.” The coffee was done and he poured a cup. “What the heck kind of name is Chloride anyway?”

“It’s a mining camp near the border. Mostly silver, some gold. Lots of bored miners with nothing to do but drink whiskey and play poker. Badly.” Bret looked over at Bart, who was already on his second cup of coffee.  “Thought it might be easier to get a decent stake started again. Where we don’t have to compete with too many professionals.”

“And you discovered this untouched haven for broken down cardsharps how?”

Bret reached for the coffee pot, intent on getting some of the hot black liquid before Bart drank it all. “Last fella I got tangled up in a losing game with. He just came back from there and said the miners were plentiful, eager and none-too-bright. Told me it was a great place to get flush if you could stand rotgut liquor and ugly women. Figured we could handle it since we don’t drink and we’ve already seen our fair share of ugly women. Besides, I won the coin toss.”

Bart didn’t look any happier with this explanation. “Probably your two-headed coin.” Bret glanced at Bart with a sly grin and Bart knew he was right. Why did he keep falling for that trick? Every time Bart caught his brother ‘cheating’ him in one form or another he swore to himself he wouldn’t get taken in again by one of Bret’s pranks. And every time he did.

“We can be there by noon if we hurry. That way we have plenty of time to settle in and find a game. And maybe some decent food.”

“And just how are we going to afford food?” Bart asked curiously. “If we’re lucky we have enough for one, maybe two hands.”

“Very simple,” Bret quickly replied. “We do what Mavericks are supposed to do. We win.”

XXXXXXXX

Bart put out the fire while Bret saddled the horses. That accomplished, they mounted and continued to ride west until both thought they would fall off the edge of the world. They finally saw it, the beginnings of a makeshift mining town. There were tents and ramshackle cabins constructed out of mismatched lumber and rotting trees. There were no roads, just well-worn dirt paths. It was loud and dirty and everything that Bret had said it would be. Bart grinned. _‘This just might be alright’_ he thought to himself. _‘Looks like a good place to change our luck.’_

They rode on, into the rickety excuse for a town. They passed a general store and what looked to be some kind of mess hall with a sign out front that said simply “FOOD.” Too many tents to count, almost one on top of the other, until an open space appeared. In the center of the large, cleared area sat the best looking building in town. It was the saloon.

“Can’t miss that,” Bret stated with a shake of his head. “Let’s see if we can find a place to pitch the tent. We might still be sleeping on the ground but there’ll be shelter over our heads.”

Bart nodded in agreement. Anything was better than sitting on his horse for another five minutes. Even manual labor. They found an open patch of land not far from the ‘saloon’ and climbed off their horses, bone weary and starving. The horses were left standing just long enough to put up their small tent and stow their personal belongings inside. Then each brother unsaddled his horse and put the rest of his gear, saddle and bedroll, into the tent. They were ‘moved in’ and the unpacking part was finished. Bart yawned and looked at his brother. Bret might have slept fine last night but he hadn’t. He had every intention of spending the rest of the afternoon sound asleep. Then he could give poker his full attention.

Hungry as he was, Bret knew that the fastest way to ‘make friends’ and find a game they would be allowed to join was to head to the saloon. He was the more gregarious of the brothers and was usually the one that the task of getting invited into a friendly game fell to. Then it was easy enough to ask “Can my brother play too?” Rarely was the answer ‘no.’

“Ok, Brother Bart, I’m off to make friends and influence suckers. Uh, I mean miners.” Bret’s use of the term ‘suckers’  betrayed his true feelings about their potential opponents. He still thought that he and Bart were exceptional players and that it should be easy to win against the local citizens. Their recent run of bad luck should have done its job in dispelling that notion but Bret attributed it to bad cards rather than good players. That was the one thing that drove Bart just a little bit crazy – the smug superiority that Bret had about playing poker. _‘Hope he loses that attitude before it’s too late,’_ Bart thought once again.  He said nothing and went into the tent. He was so tired that even the ground looked good.

Bret wandered over to the saloon to get the feel of the place. It was still afternoon but most of the miners were inside drinking already. The building was packed with rowdy and loud men who had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Bret weighed his options – spend what little money he had left on food or order a whiskey and pass some time at the bar getting to know the local players. He opted for the drink. He had long ago learned how to nurse one shot all night long – easy to do when you don’t like the taste to begin with. Within a short time he was being invited to join the next game, as soon as a table opened up. _‘Well why not,’_ he thought. Bart was back in the tent sleeping; Bret might as well get started recouping their previous losses. There was no doubt in his mind that he would do just that.

Everything went as planned. There was always a challenge to poker and Bret had great respect for the game. He just didn’t have any for the men that were playing it. He was winning easily, small amounts at first but players kept rotating in and out of the group and the pots kept increasing. Bret kept winning, no matter who he was playing against or what kind of hand they had. By the time Bart finally wandered into the saloon the place was louder than ever and Bret was starving. He was also $300.00 richer.

“Come on, Brother Bart, let’s go get food!” Bret excused himself from the poker table with an “I’ll be back, gentlemen.” Each of the miners in the game nodded and his place was quickly taken at the table by another man.

“Off to a good start, I see,” Bart offered. Bret grinned and took his brother’s arm as he steered him away from the game and out of the saloon. “More than enough to feed us,” was the reply. “And enough to get both of us re-started once we come back.”

Bart laughed for the first time in a week. “Oh Brother Bret, how you do provide! I thought I was going to have to eat my horse.”

“Put your faith in poker and your brother. Neither will do you wrong.”

_‘Let’s hope not,_ ’ was Bart’s only thought.


	3. Brotherly Love

Brotherly love. How strong and comforting it can be. Knowing that there is another person in the world with the same upbringing, the same ideas, the same blood. Knowing that they would never do anything to hurt you. Until they do.

Bret and Bart had been playing poker regularly in ‘The Saloon’ in the mining town of Chloride, Arizona. The occupants of the town were good men, for the most part, who were anxious to make their fortune by striking it rich. The Maverick brothers were anxious to make their fortune by beating the miners at poker. And for the past week that’s just what they had been doing.

It hadn’t taken long for both of the Mavericks to make ‘friends’ and become well liked in the camp. They were outgoing, funny, and always willing to play cards, no matter what time of day or night it was. Bart actually became acquainted with everybody faster than Bret; it got to be well known that if you needed an extra hand around the camp for one job or another Bart was usually willing to pitch in. Which is how Bret wound up in the poker game that would change their relationship for a long, long time, and Bart didn’t.

It was late afternoon and Fuzzy Smith had ‘borrowed’ Bart for a rail hauling job that needed to get done. Bart, having bested Fuzzy at the saloon more than once in the past week, felt obligated to help out. After all, he was now in possession of almost all of Fuzzy’s prospecting ‘stash,’ and there was no indication that Fuzzy was going to quit playing or start winning anytime soon. So Bart wasn’t in the Maverick tent when Big John Bowman checked in on Bret.

“Say, Maverick, gonna be a big game tonight in the saloon. Be there at six and bring your brother.”   Bowman had stuck his head in the tent to issue the ‘invite.’ He was gone before Bret could tell him that Bart might not be back anytime soon  from his commitment to Fuzzy and the task. “Oh well, he’ll show up eventually,” Bret said out loud.

When Bart hadn’t returned by 5 o’clock, Bret wandered over to get dinner and have a smoke before sitting down to play. It had been a quiet, peaceful day; as much as it could be in a booming mining camp with dozens of hot, sweaty, exhausted men milling about. The oldest Maverick brother was feeling good – well fed, well rested and considerably better-off than when he arrived in Chloride. One more night of winning and he and Bart could be on their way, back towards civilization. Bret had a vision of soft beds, large steaks and leggy blonde women. Oh, and decent cigars.

The saloon was in its normal uproar when Bret walked in. Men were drinking, arguing and smoking. Poker games were being played at several tables but the largest one in back was empty, presumably waiting for the summoned players to arrive. Bret made his way to the bar and Walker looked up and greeted him. “Mr. Maverick, coffee as usual?”

“Yep,” came the reply. “You know me too well, Walker. Got any of those cigars left back there?”

“Sure.” Walker produced a box from behind the bar. The cigars weren’t the best in the world, but they were free. Bret took one and lit a match. “Thanks.”

Walker poured Bret a cup of coffee, black and strong. Bret picked up the cup and walked over to the vacant table. Where was everyone?

Slowly a small group of men made their way to the back of the room and the empty table. There was Clete, the old timer who was never without a cigar stub in his mouth and a glass in his hand; Jacob, who had been a blacksmith before coming to Chloride to prospect; Reuben, with a taste for tequila and bad bets; Lewis, who had once been sheriff in a small Arizona town and was now more or less a gun for hire; and Perry, the youngest of the bunch and the newest of the group. Perry was an unknown quantity. He had joined the gathering just last night but seemed fairly knowledgeable about the game. And somewhat skilled.

And then there was Big John himself, a misnomer if there ever was one. Big John was a small, wiry fellow, skin burned dark from the sun and almost bald. John may have been small in stature but his heart was as big as the room. If anyone was new at the camp or in trouble or needed anything, John was there. He regularly made trips to the nearest town and brought back supplies. Any newcomer to the camp gravitated to Big John and soon became fast friends with him. He was the organizer of this particular table and its driving force. Even if you were losing you were still glad to be playing because Big John was there and he wouldn’t let anyone be ill-tempered.

Bret was glad to see all the regulars and knew that he would miss them when he and Bart left. Playing with mostly this same group every night had tempered his attitude towards the ‘suckers’ considerably. Winning was still easy to him but he had developed some respect for any man who could work hard all day trying to dig up silver and gold and play poker all night. He was looking forward to this game.

Time passed quickly as they opened with 5 card draw. Once again Bret started out successful consistently, with Perry sneaking in a winning hand every now and then. As usual Reuben made bad bets, which he followed up with a lot of Mexican cursing when he lost. Clete drank and drank and drank and lost and lost and lost. And then slowly, subtly, the atmosphere at the table began to change. The cards stopped falling Bret’s way and first Perry, then Big John, took to beating him regularly. Nothing large at first, and certainly nothing to be alarmed about, but unquestionably more often than on previous nights. Bret began studying the other players more meticulously, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. _‘Just a small run of bad luck,’_ he thought to himself. _‘Maybe it’s time to change things up.’_

“Gentlemen, I need a moment. Got a brother to check on.” Bret stood up and pushed his chair back. They’d already been playing for hours and there’d been no sign of Bart. It was as good an excuse as any to break the pattern developing at the table. A pattern Bret didn’t like. He nodded to all and Clete raised his ever-present glass. “To a swift return.”

Bret made his way back out of the saloon and over to the Maverick tent. There was no sign of Bart anywhere. He would have been concerned but he had long ago determined that his ‘little’ brother was more than capable of taking care of himself _. ‘Why, I haven’t had to look out for him since he was about 10 years old,’_ Bret thought. His mind wandered back over the memory and he smiled. He was glad that Cousin Beau had been on the receiving end of Bart’s retribution and not him. Mavericks were slow to anger but could only be pushed so far, even with each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Little Brother Rising

“Let him up, Bart!” Bret yelled at his brother. “You’re killing him!”

The impact of Bret’s words pushed Bart back away from his Cousin Beau, who had been choking and spitting for some time. Bart’s anger began to subside and he realized how close he had come to actually hurting a Maverick. “I’m sorry,” Bart mumbled to his cousin, who was still sprawled on the ground like he had been murdered. He reached down to grab Beau by the hand and pull him to his feet. After the throttling that Bart had just given him Beau would have none of it and waved Bart away. Bret stood there and watched the two of them in horror.

“Stop it!” Bret pleaded. Beau finally stood up and bent forward with his hands on his knees. He was still gasping and coughing and it was difficult to breathe. There was no doubt in his mind that his ‘little’ cousin Bart would have finished the job, given half a chance. And Beau was none too happy about it.

The day had begun like so many others, with each Maverick at their respective homes doing the small amount of chores required of them. Bret watered the horses, Bart tended to the chickens, and half mile away Beau baled hay in the barn. None of them were fond of the minuscule responsibilities they each had but it seemed a small price to pay for the amount of freedom they were given. The most important task to each of the boys was learning everything they could about poker and all its delicacies. And they couldn’t further their education with the cards when both Pappy and Uncle Ben were sleeping off the previous night’s endeavors.

So on this particular morning Cousin Beau wandered over to the elder Maverick’s home and found the brothers attempting to drown a fish. From the creek, in a horse trough. Amazing what mischief one can get into when you are ten and twelve years old. Beau didn’t see that there was much point to the whole procedure but, having nothing better to do, enthusiastically joined them. That’s when the trouble started.

“How can you drown something in water that lives in water?” That certainly seemed like a practical question to Beau, but he hadn’t intended to ask it out loud. Bart, being the youngest of the three and less prone to logical reasoning, took appropriate offense at his cousin’s question. “Who says you can’t?”

This made no sense to Beau as he hadn’t said that you couldn’t do it, only asked how you would do it. “That’s not what I said,” he responded. “How are you going to drown it?” came next, partially repeating his earlier question. Again Bart queried “Do you think we can’t do it?”

By this time Beau was thoroughly confused. He didn’t know that Bret had been mercilessly teasing and harassing his little brother for weeks on end, but had been especially irritating all morning and that Bart was close to the boiling point and looking for someone to take it out on. Since Bart was still smaller than Bret he was not inclined to pummel his older brother. Beau was built rather slightly for his age and was closer to Bart in size. The youngest Maverick transferred his anger to his cousin and made Beau, at least in Bart’s head, the bad guy and the source of his discomfort. He was indeed picking on someone his own size, albeit that person did not have a hand in his aggravation.

Beau didn’t understand any of this and simply gave up. He turned his back on the brothers and started for the far side of the corral. Then Bart, in his frustration and anger, picked the fish up out of the horse trough and threw it at Beau’s back. Bret just stood and laughed as the two cousins began brawling, throwing punches and dirt at the same time. Beau still didn’t grasp what had started it but he was darn sure not going to back down from a younger boy, even if that boy was his Cousin Bart.

They fought on for a few minutes, punching and hair pulling and rolling around in the dirt, neither doing the other any serious harm. Then Beau made the mistake of accidentally poking Bart in the eye and Bart went for Beau’s throat. The choking began in earnest. Bart was out of control with anger, tired of the constant teasing and harassment coming from the older boys. Never mind that most of it came from his brother and not his cousin, he was going to punish whoever was within his reach. Beau began choking and really thought he was going to die. That’s when Bret yelled “Let him up, Bart!” and the fight quickly came to a crashing halt.

Bart was truly ashamed of what he had done. It really wasn’t Cousin Beau that he was upset with, it was his brother Bret. The brothers, who had once been close and protective of each other, had lately taken to arguing and scrapping over the littlest things. It was about to drive Pappy crazy, watching his two boys constantly fighting. And he had to admit that the majority of the problems were caused by his oldest son.

Bret was appalled by what had happened. He never knew that his ‘harmless teasing’ of Bart would almost cause an unprovoked death in the Maverick clan. It sickened him to think of the repercussions that would come if the worst happened. And he didn’t understand why it had been so easy for him to make his brother’s life as miserable as he could. Whatever had caused it, he reasoned, it stopped now.

Beau finally caught his breath and looked first at Bret, then at Bart. He was in a daze, having almost been throttled over a fish! Bret had a guilty look on his face and Bart wouldn’t raise his eyes to meet Beau’s. What had started as a normal summer day nearly ended in tragedy. The three of them stood there for what seemed like an eternity before Bret spoke. “My fault,” he murmured again and again. He reached over and wrapped his arms around his cousin.  Beau started to pull away and then stopped struggling. He pulled Bart into the embrace and they remained there with their arms around each other. After the events of that morning Bret made a solemn promise to himself that he would never again do anything to hurt his family or cause them pain in any way.

 

 


	5. Out on a Limb

Bret had been sitting in the tent for almost an hour thinking back on the morning of Bart’s ‘coming of age’. As the memories began to fade the noise and cacophony of his surroundings brought him back to the mining camp. Where was Bart? It was long past the time he should have been back from his undertaking with Fuzzy. Then it occurred to Bret that Bart might well be back and in the saloon. He had been gone long enough from the poker game, anyway, and stood up to retrace his steps.

Nothing much had changed, other than the fact that the place was even noisier than it had been when he left. Still packed with men in various stages of drunkenness and so thick with cigar smoke that it was difficult to see, getting to the back of the building to reclaim his seat was no small task. After some pushing, shoving and general jostling he saw the six men that he had left earlier and signaled to Walker at the bar. A fresh cup of coffee was presented to Maverick as he resumed his seat at the table.

“Did I miss anything, gentlemen?” Bret asked as he pulled his chair up.

Clete cackled and Lewis shook his head ‘no.’  “Find your brother?” Perry inquired.

“Nope,” came the reply. “Must have run into a complication.”

Reuben looked up from his latest glass of tequila. “Señor Bart is very resourceful. He will find a way around any problems that have cropped up.”

 

Bret nodded his head in agreement. “Brother Bart can more than take care of himself. I’m sure they’ll handle whatever delayed their return,” he paused and as an afterthought added “although it sure would be nice to have him here for this game.” 

“Still plannin’ on leavin’ tomorrow?” This was the first thing that Jacob had said all night. “I mean, today?” he added, since it was now after midnight.

“Still plannin’ on it, yeah. Assuming Bart gets back before sun up.”

Clete cackled once again. He found everything that the Maverick boys said to be funny. “Oh, he’ll stroll in here ‘bout the time we’re ready to hang it up for the night and expect us to play more just fer him. You got a good-hearted brother, Maverick, but he keeps some funny hours.”

“Yeah, he does tend to be awake a lot during the daylight,” Bret answered. “Don’t know why.”

Things settled back in and they resumed playing. Bret kept drinking coffee and Walker had to keep refilling his cup. Clete, as usual, always had a glass of whiskey in his hand and Reuben kept his own bottle of tequila. When Bret found that the cards still weren’t coming his way he decided he’d had enough coffee for a week and finally asked Walker to bring him a whiskey. Jacob and Lewis had never seen either of the Mavericks take a drink and they were startled. Perry simply raised $100 and asked, “Things that bad?”

“Mmmmmm,” said Bret. “Here’s your hundred and another $50. Just trying to change it up a bit.”

Reuben threw his cards down on the table in disgust. “How does everybody keep drawing good cards but me. Señor Bret, I think that you are a magician. You make poker hands out of nothing.”

 

Bret slowly shook his head. “No magic, Reuben, just skill. I learned to play when I was a youngun’. Been playin’ ever since.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” came a familiar voice from behind. Bret looked up from his hand and smiled. “Brother Bart, I was beginning to think we were gonna’ hafta to send a posse out after you. Where’ve you and Fuzzy been?”

Bart took off his hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. He was hungry, worn out and fifty ways of bone weary. “Took us way longer than either of us expected. Then on the way back to camp a wheel broke and we couldn’t fix it. Had to walk the horses’ home pulling a lame wagon. Looks like I haven’t missed anything too exciting.”

“Just the normal,” Big John interjected. “You know, Maverick plays, Maverick wins. You ready to sit in?” Bart shook his head ‘no’. “Since the food tent’s closed the only thing I’m sittin’ in on is sleep. Nothing like hard work to kill a man’s appetite for decadence.”

They all laughed. “As my old Pappy used to say,” Bret started, but Bart cut him off. “Brother Bret, if Pappy was this tired he wouldn’t say a thing. And neither will I. I am retiring for the night, gentlemen, and if my brother knows what’s good for him he won’t wake me up unless the camp burns down. And then only if the tent is on fire.” Bart tipped his hat to the table and walked away.

“Funny boy, that kid brother of yours.” This observation came from Lewis. Bret’s face got very serious as he reiterated “Don’t ever call him a kid. We both stopped being kids a long time ago.”

“No offense, Maverick,” came Lewis’ immediate reply. Bret smiled again. “None taken. Bart’s the sensitive one, anyway.” Lewis gave him a funny look but said nothing more. The card game continued.

Around 4 a.m. things got serious when Reuben gave up. “It’s been a pleasure, Señors. Much more fun than being held up at gunpoint by banditos. But I too must get some sleep.” He reached across the table to shake Bret’s hand. “It is truly an experience, playing cards with you, Señor Bret. Perhaps we shall play again sometime.”

 

Bret had just started shuffling the cards. “Perhaps, Reuben. Perhaps. Adios.”

The next to go was Jacob. “Well, got to get an early start on the claim. I can feel it in my bones, there’s silver out there just for the takin’.” He too rose from his seat and pushed his chair back. “Like Reuben said, Maverick, it’s been a pleasure. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Jacob,” Bret answered. “Good luck to you, too.” They played two more hands and Big John gave in. “Can’t get any more blood out of me,” he announced. Clete agreed with him. “I’m done for the night. Got to go back to diggin’.” He removed the cigar stub from his mouth, leaned over to Bret and said quietly, “Watch out fer Perry. Somethin’ funny about the way he plays.” Then he grabbed his glass and was gone. That left three of them sitting at the table.

Bret took Clete’s warning to heart. He too thought there was something odd about the way Perry played poker but couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d watched the newcomer carefully all night but had been unable to detect any sign of cheating. The deck of cards wasn’t marked or crimped and Perry wasn’t dealing from anywhere but the top of the deck. Yet Clete was right.  There was something funny about Perry and the way he played cards.

And still they played on. Lewis was overly quiet and Perry didn’t say much of anything. Bret kept winning for a while, then the tide turned again and no matter what cards he had it seemed Perry’s were better. Bret was undeterred for a time and then it gradually became obvious that Perry was winning most of the hands. Bret still couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary and it finally came to a head. Lewis folded and muttered something like ”luckiest son-of-a-gun I ever saw” and left the table without another word. The saloon was almost empty now, quiet and desolate as Bret and Perry were locked in the final battle of the night. All the money was either on the table or on Perry’s side of it. Bret had put everything he had into this last game and knew that he couldn’t lose. He sat with a king high straight, just waiting for Perry to call him.

But Perry didn’t call. At last he looked straight at Bret across the table and said very quietly, “There’s your $200. And I raise you $200.” He let out a long sigh, waiting for Bret’s response. Maverick was undeterred, even though he had no money to bet with. “I have no cash left.”

“Guess you fold then, Mr. Maverick,” Perry came back almost immediately. Bret shook his head ‘no’ and got up from his chair. “Give me a minute,” he said flatly. Without turning his back to the table he went over to the bar, where Walker was still standing and watching them play. He looked up in surprise as Bret leaned over to ask him a question. He quietly nodded his head and reached under the bar where he kept a small box. He reached into the box, pulled out two one hundred dollar bills and handed them to Maverick. Bret took the bills, went back to the table and confidently set them in the middle of the pile. “Call.”

Perry didn’t look Bret in the eyes. He simply turned his cards over and said “Full house, queens over threes.”

Bret stood at the table in stunned silence. He couldn’t believe that this newcomer had beaten him in a game he never expected to lose. That he was once again broke. And that he had just sold Bart’s black opal cufflinks for $200.

 


	6. Enough Worry to Go Around

Lily Mae stirred the pot of stew that she was preparing for supper and continued on with her ‘serious’ talk with Cousin Beau. “Not for you or me to decide, Mister Beau. Miz Belle left those to Mister Bart and there shouldn’t be anymore discussion about it.” Lily Mae had never wavered in her opinions and she didn’t start now. She and Beau were in the ‘cookin’ room at Ben Maverick’s house, where they had been for some time debating the subject at hand.

It still troubled Beau. Not that his Aunt Belle had left a precious possession to her youngest son rather than her oldest, but that Cousin Bret seemed to be so obsessed with the rightful ownership of that possession. The object in question, of course, was the pair of gold and black opal cufflinks that Belle Maverick had earmarked for her ‘baby’ Bart upon her death many years ago.

Since the day Bart had come so close to throttling Beau there had been, for the most part, peace and harmony in the family. Bret still watched over his younger brother and cousin, but the mean-spirited teasing of both parties had ceased. Not to say that the family relationships between the boys or even their fathers were perfect; but no one in the Maverick clan held a grudge and usually a sense of ‘us against the world’ ruled. And yet there was one point of contention between the brothers that sometimes spilled over into their relationship with their cousin. And that was the rightful ownership of the cufflinks.

Of course there was no doubt in Uncle Beau’s or Cousin Bart’s minds as to who owned said cufflinks. They were Bart’s, specifically willed to him by his deceased mother. That fact did not sit well with Bret, who loved his younger brother and mother but disputed the claim made on the object. His reasoning was that, as the oldest of the two boys, the ownership should have been his. He was the one that Momma turned to when she needed something done; he was the one who took care of her when she became sick and lay dying; he was the one who nursed his brother Bart through each and every illness that plagued him after Momma passed. He was the one who ran the house and managed whichever housekeeper they had when Pappy was out playing cards. Nobody argued with that and all involved were grateful that he had been so responsible. But the fact remained that it was Bart that had received the last gift Momma would ever give and not him. And it was wrong.

All that once again played through Beau’s mind as he sat talking to Lily Mae. The dilemma did not come up on a frequent basis, but very year as it approached the anniversary of Aunt Belle’s death Bret would get slightly obsessive. And there would be mild unrest in both houses for a few days until the subject was again forgotten. At least by all but Bret. Which is what prompted the current discussion between Beau and Lily Mae.

“I just don’t understand it, Lily Mae. Why can’t Cousin Bret let it go? They’re not his, they belong to Cousin Bart.” Beau appeared really troubled by the annual conflict and that’s what had propelled him to seek out Lily Mae’s counsel. She shook her head once again and answered. “Some people just ain’t good at lettin’ things go, Mister Beau. He’s a good lad, and mighty fine lookin’.” She paused to find just the right words. “And charmin’ as can be. But he’s just like his Pa, got a stubborn streak a mile wide. He decided long time ago that those cuff things should be his and he’ll not be changin’ his mind till somethin’ makes him.” She emphasized the word so that Beau wouldn’t assume someone could change Bret’s mind.

Beau sighed in teenage exasperation. “I know you’re right, Lily Mae, but I can’t help feeling that something’s going to come of it, and none of us will like it.” Lily Mae chuckled out loud at Beau’s observation. The boy was very bright for being almost seventeen but tended to worry a little too much about the family dynamic. She hoped he would outgrow that trait but feared that he might not. Of the three young men in the two households, all were good looking and charming and bright, but Beau was the family member that agonized the most over everyone’s state of mind.

Lily Mae shook her head again and once more tried to tell Beau there was nothing he could do about the dispute. “Gonna stay in Mister Bret’s head till he wants it out. In the meantime, go see if your Pa’s up yet. I swear that man sleeps later every day.”

Beau rose from the stool he had been perched on and headed for the door. ”Yes, ma’am,” he told the housekeeper as he left the room. His conversation with Lily Mae had done nothing to ease the concern in his mind. Maybe he should talk it over with Bret. Again. He considered that option for a moment while he went to his father’s bedroom.

The room was dark, as usual. Beau could barely make out Ben’s form in the bed before opening the heavy window curtains. “Pa, are you awake? It’s almost the middle of the day.”

There was an unintelligible sound from the bed and Beau knew that his father was stirring. “Can’t be. Just got to bed. Go away.”

“Pa, Lily Mae sent me to get you up. She’s got food ready to eat and you know how she is about missing meals.” Beau’s remark was greeted by a groan, although a not a very convincing one. “That woman’ll be the death of me yet.”

Beau shook his head. “I don’t think so, Pa. It’s more likely you’ll get shot by a disgruntled husband or frustrated poker player. I don’t think Lily Mae will do you in.”

Bentley Maverick almost snorted with laughter. His son was right, Lily Mae would not be the cause of his  demise. And as for disgruntled husbands, there hadn’t been any of those around in a while. But there were always going to be sore losers, especially when you played poker regularly in the same saloon and everyone in town except the passing saddle tramps knew you well. They’d been on this land way too long, he thought, maybe it was time to move on. Or at least do some traveling. Ben had been considering this for a while, perhaps he should discuss it with Beauregard. Surely he was getting restless too?

As his son opened up the room to daylight, Ben made his way out of bed and into clothes. He would get cleaned up after eating, he decided, and lightheartedly grabbed at Beau as he headed for the kitchen. The boy was getting big, at least tall, and slender like his mother. Blonde like her too, Ben thought. Funny, the rest of the Mavericks were all tall and dark. Even his nephew Bart’s honey colored hair had darkened as he aged, while Beau’s had not. He favored Abigail’s side of the family, too, resembling her kinfolk more than Ben’s. And his temperament! Lord, sometimes his son’s moral fiber drove him crazy! Oh, he was a Maverick deep down inside but there were too many of his mother’s attributes in his soul. Worried too much, for one thing, and bent over backward trying to make Beauregard proud of him. You’d think he would be more concerned with his own father’s opinion of him than his uncle’s, but Beau knew how much Ben loved him and appreciated him. Uncle Beau, sometimes, not so much. And Beauregard, after all, was the head of the family. Beau wanted and deserved his namesake’s approval very much. Which was another reason that Beau was so concerned with Bret’s state of mind. Very often Beauregard almost demanded Beau keep him appraised of the comings and goings on in his sons lives; not only that, but expected the younger Beau to keep the peace between the brothers. Most of the time that wasn’t a problem; but this time of the year was difficult at best.

Beau followed his father back to Lily Mae’s domain. He hadn’t been hungry before; he was too busy worrying, but now the food smelled delicious. As if someone had rung a dinner bell, Bret and Bart magically appeared at the back door with their best “Is supper ready?” faces in place. Neither Lily Mae nor Ben would turn them away; this was one of those periods when Beauregard was without a housekeeper and his cooking was none too good. So Ben held the back door open to them both and they rolled in, reminiscent of two cats rolling around on the floor. “Good afternoon, Uncle Bentley” they said in unison. Ben smiled and followed them to the table. Everyone sat and said grace (Lily Mae insisted on it) and passed around the food. “My brother’s still without a housekeeper?” Ben asked the question, although the answer was obvious.

“Yes, sir,” came Bart’s quick answer. “Pappy says he wouldn’t a fired the last one if she‘d paid as much attention to cookin’ as she did to Bret.” All eyes turned to Bret, who at seventeen years old was already attractive to the ladies. He turned a bright red and avoided their stares. “All the girls are crazy bout Brother Bret!” Bart almost shouted, he was laughing so hard. Bret picked up a biscuit and threw it at his brother’s head. Bart grabbed it out of the air and began eating it. Bart had recently turned fifteen and was just beginning to grow into the good-looking man he was to become. Bret threw another biscuit at Bart and Lily Mae intervened. “Stop that, you two rascals. I spent all mornin’ cookin’ and that is food, not a weapon.” The biscuit throwing stopped immediately. All three boys lived in fear of the day they wouldn’t get any more of Lily Mae’s meals.

“Was Beauregard up yet?” Ben asked the brothers. Bret answered as Bart had his mouth full of stew. “Yes sir, he was up and gone a while ago. Said he had some business to take care of. Didn’t say what it was.” Bret’s tone was curious, wondering if Uncle Ben knew why Pappy had left the little house so early.

Ben was quiet. _‘Probably trying to hire another housekeeper, preferably one who will keep her hands off of his oldest son,’_ he thought to himself. If there was another reason for the trip, Ben didn’t know what it was. Again the thought ran through his mind _‘Maybe it really is time to move on.’_ All three of the boys were well-versed in the art of making a living by playing poker, and if they were traveling there wouldn’t be a need for any household help. But what to do with the small ranch that the whole family shared? Better not put that question to Beauregard, Ben decided. He’d probably come up with some scheme to use it as an ante in a poker game.

The remainder of the meal proceeded normally. Everyone finished eating; Lily Mae gathered the dishes and the boys left. Later that evening Bentley was surprised to find another Maverick at his door, his brother. Ben opened the door and Beau went straight for the pot of coffee that Lily Mae always kept, hot and fresh, on the stove. He poured two cups and handed the second one to Ben. “Take this, Bentley, and sit down.”

They sat in silence while Beau drained his cup. Then he turned to his brother and said “Ben, I want a drink.” This was not a good sign; Ben was shaken to think that something had rattled Beau so much that he thought of drinking. After all these years. He waited for his brother to explain.

Beau got up and poured another cup of coffee. He needed something in his hand, and if it wasn’t going to be a drink then a coffee cup would have to do. The house was still and deserted; Lily Mae had gone home and the boys were all down with the horses. It took several minutes before Ben could wrap his head around what Beau said next: “The Confederate Army is after our boys.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Prelude

Bret Maverick was hard pressed to remember any time in his life that had caused him more grief then the next few hours would. And that included the time spent in a Yankee prison camp while the Civil War raged on.

For once in his life he was all out of options for fixing the mess that he was in. The mess that he himself had made. All because of his need to win a game of cards and his lifelong belief that the object his brother treasured most in the world was actually his. How was he going to remedy this mess?

First he thought of money. He automatically reached inside his coat to find the thousand dollar bill that he kept pinned there; both a gift from Pappy and an emergency ‘back-up’ plan. All he found was the empty pin. Then he thought about turning tail and running; that path was still open to him. No, that wasn’t a good idea. He had to consider the fact that his brother would be the one left holding the bag, so to speak. An angry bartender and an unhappy but sympathetic mob of miners would need to be faced, and Bart would never forgive him. _‘Well,’_ he reasoned, _‘Bart is never going to forgive me anyway.’_

He was outside the empty saloon, smoking and pacing. He thought of several more solutions to the problem at hand and discarded all of them. He was unable to come up with any palatable resolution other than the most obvious – retrieve the cufflinks from Bart, deliver them to their new owner, Walker, and take his medicine like a man. It was that last part that he absolutely didn’t want to face.

He thought back over all the years that he truly believed the cufflinks should have been his, yet somewhere deep down in his soul he knew they weren’t. They had belonged to Belle Maverick, his mother. His and Bart’s mother. Belle had left them to Bart. And Bret had just lost them in a poker game.

There was no use putting things off any longer. He had to deliver the property to their new owner, Walker Sommers. And that meant facing Bart.

His resolve firmly in place, Bret made his way back to the Maverick tent. It was around 6 a.m. and the only men stirring were the ones who hadn’t been in the saloon last night drinking. Which means it was still fairly quiet. He wasn’t sure if Bart would be up yet; it was early this morning when Bart had finally gotten back to camp and he was exhausted from a long day of ‘helping’ Fuzzy Smith help someone else. Quite frankly he was hoping to find his brother still asleep. So he wasn’t at all disappointed to do just that.

Bret soundlessly picked his way through the small tent and over to Bart’s saddlebags. He knew just where the precious gift was kept, inside a small hidden pocket underneath the strap. He reached in and removed the black bag they resided in and put the saddlebags back where he found them. Bart didn’t stir and Bret made his way back out of the tent. He strode quickly over to Walker’s tent and quietly called “Walker, it's Bret Maverick” before entering.

“Good mornin’” Walker responded, getting up from the cot he was sitting on. “Want some coffee? It should be ready.”

Bret shook his head ‘no.’ He was already about to jump out of his skin and didn’t need any more stimulants. “Mind if I get some first?” Walker brushed past Bret to the campfire outside and poured himself a cup. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“I’m sure,” Bret responded. He nervously removed the cufflinks from the small bag and handed them to Walker. “Don’t suppose there’s any way I can get you to change your mind and give me another day to raise the funds I owe you?’

It was Walker’s turn to shake his head. “No, sir, you know how much I admired those cufflinks ever since your brother first came into the saloon. Never thought I’d have a chance to own ‘em.  Wouldn’t take any amount of money for ‘em.” Walker stopped and took a swallow of coffee. “Besides, if I remember correctly, Mr. Maverick, you are broke.”

“That is a temporary situation, Walker,” Bret answered. “One I shall correct tonight.”

Walker looked at Bret skeptically. “Bart doesn’t know yet, does he?” The expression on Bret’s face caused Walker to continue. “That you practically sold ‘em to me?” Pause. “For two hundred dollars?”

Bret stared at Walker, trying to get a read on the bartender. “He doesn’t need to know, if we can work something out.”

The bartender shook his head again and laughed. “Don’t know what you’ve got in mind. Not much bargainin’ to be done when it’s all one-sided.”

“Tell me how much you want for them and I’ll get it tonight.”

The tone in Bret’s voice was desperate and the expression on Walker’s face was firm. “No sir, I told you, I have no intention of selling them. Sorry about your brother, but he’s your problem.”

_‘Yes indeed,’_ thought Bret _, ‘he is my problem.’_ He looked at Walker, long and hard. The bartender had never made any secret of his admiration for the cufflinks. They were an absolute object of beauty and he had offered Bart almost anything for them. Bart had simply told him that they weren’t for sale, at any price. And now Walker had them, and Bret’s life was over.

Without saying anything else Bret turned and walked away. To quote Big John, “Can’t get any more blood out of me.” The oldest Maverick brother knew that he was beaten. He was going to have to own up to his act of stupidity and desperation to Bart and wait for his punishment. The thought of his brother besting him in anything didn’t sit well with him, any more than his own foolishness did.

The path back to their tent was short but it seemed like the longest walk of Bret’s life. How was he going to explain this to Bart? How would he explain it to Pappy? He shuddered at the thought. And where was Cousin Beau when he was needed most, to make peace out of the war that was about to erupt between the brothers? Of course, Pappy had sent Beau to England as punishment for winning a medal during the war. Stupid medal. Stupid war. Stupid Pappy. But most of all, stupid Bret. How many times had Cousin Beau tried to talk him out of his ‘mental ownership’ of the cufflinks? And how many times had he failed? Now, when Bret needed him the most, he was thousands of miles away. He shook his head at his own foolhardiness. Too late for any of that now. This would be a bitter pill to swallow and Bret was preparing himself for Bart’s well-deserved wrath. He couldn’t begin to imagine just had bad it would be and how long it would last.

 


	8. Camp Douglas

They’d only been at Camp Douglas a short time but that was more than enough. Food was terrible when it wasn’t non-existent. It was miserably cold or miserably hot. There were no latrines and all kinds of diseases were rampant. And when they were lucky they might have a straw mat to sleep on. When sleep was possible.

Neither of the Maverick brothers could tolerate much more. Just growing into manhood when they were drafted by the Confederate army, they’d spent roughly three full years fighting in a war they didn’t believe in. It was almost a relief when their regiment was ambushed and captured; at least they didn’t have to worry about Union soldiers sniping at them anymore. And then they were sent to Camp Douglas as prisoners of war. Once they arrived the realization dawned on them that they had been safer on the battlefield.

Bret and Bart had the ‘good fortune’ of being drafted together and being assigned to the same brigade. Both were young and not particularly brave but it was easier to shoot at people when they were shooting at you. And they had each other. They had always been close but fighting side by side bonded them in a way that nothing else could have. Often they were cold, scared, and miserable, but they had each other’s backs when no one else did.

“Just another day in paradise,” Bret muttered as he looked at the slop they had been given as food that morning. Bart ignored his older brother and ate everything that was put in front of him. After months of half-rations and scrounging for whatever could be found, he accepted anything at all as tolerable. It certainly wasn’t Lily Mae’s cooking but it was better than starvation. He kept eating as Bret made several more disparaging remarks before finally giving up and consuming what passed as food.

“Be thankful for being fed,” Bart offered as he swallowed the last bite. “We could still be out in the cold, you know.”

“And that would be different how?” Bret replied. Both were sitting on their ‘beds’, backs up against a wall, trying not to shiver in the bitter Chicago winter. Bret had managed to get his hands on a small blanket which he gladly shared with Bart.

“At least no one is firing cannons at us,” Bart rejoined. He managed a small grin before continuing “and no one is barking orders.”

Bret had to acknowledge the truth in those statements. Bart had proven to be more of an optimist than Bret, which came in handy these days. Bret saw the bad side of most everything, Bart the good. They sat in silence for a few minutes until a general stirring of the prison population caught their attention. Into the room strode a Union cavalry major, in full dress uniform, and several lesser officers, along with two or three enlisted men. Dead silence descended on the prison room and all eyes turned to the major.

“We need Indian fighters in the Western Territory. You men are being given the opportunity to get out of prison by signing an oath of loyalty to the United States of America and heading west with us. You’ll have to agree to serve two years and you won’t have to fight the Confederate Army – just Indians. We’ll return shortly to sign you up.” With that announcement the major turned on his heel and left the room, followed closely by the remaining cavalry officers.

Bart turned to Bret excitedly. “A chance to get out, Brother Bret!”

Bret wasn’t so sure about the opportunity. “A way to trade one prison for another, Bart.”

Bart nodded in agreement, sort of. “But wouldn’t you rather be back out west than in this cold, damp excuse for a prison?”

That idea did merit some consideration. “Yes, but somebody would still be trying to kill us.”

“But not with cannons or guns,” Bart answered quickly. “I’d rather dodge arrows than bullets. I can’t take any more of this doing nothing but waiting.”

From the murmur that arose in the rest of the prison area most everyone there felt the same way as Bart. Anything was better than what they were doing now, which consisted of freezing to death, starving to death or getting sick with something there was no medicine for. Somewhat reluctantly Bret agreed about fighting Indians. The prospect of once again having enough to eat was too tempting. And he was itching to get his hands on a deck of cards, even if he had to play penny ante poker.

“Alright, little brother, it’s off to fight Indians we go.” Bret looked around at the crumbling walls and knew he would be glad to see the last of this place. Next to him, Bart stiffened slightly and shot back “Enough with the ‘little brother’ remark. I’m as much of a man as you are.”

The oldest of the Mavericks was surprised by Bart’s response. Bret had called Bart ‘little brother’ all of his life but suddenly the term offended him. “Sorry,” Bret offered, “Brother Bart,” he added, using the slightly altered version of Bart’s name. He looked at his sibling, huddled next to him under their meager blanket, and really saw him for the first time in a long time. Bart was almost as tall as he was, built thinner, with dark brown hair instead of black. And no dimples. But there was something about Bart that made all the ladies heads turn when he walked in a room, and they were dazzled by his personality and charm. And the Maverick smile. Yes, Bret had to admit to himself, Bart had grown up while they fought the Yankees and he was, indeed, a man.

So they sat, with all of the other Johnny Rebs, waiting for the major and his contingent to return. And when he did Bret and Bart Maverick signed the oath of allegiance to the United States of America and became Indian fighters.

 

 


	9. The Walls of Jericho

Bret returned to the Maverick tent. He put on a pot of coffee, even though he couldn’t drink anymore, just in case Bart wanted something to throw at him. Better the pot than anything else that his brother could pick up.

He sat outside the tent on a camp stool and contemplated his dilemma. On the one hand he knew that Bart would be angry with him. How angry he didn’t want to think about. On the other hand . . . . there was no other hand. He would consider himself extremely lucky if Bart didn’t go after him the way he had their Cousin Beau all those years ago on the ranch.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so careless with something that wasn’t even his to begin with? His head began to throb with the enormity of what he’d done. Bad enough that he’d gambled with something he had no right to. But to have lost the one thing that Bart held near and dear to him all this time – that was unforgivable. And he hadn’t even thought twice about it. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it at all. Bret Maverick had to admit that he wanted to beat Perry and win the game so badly that he hadn’t given a thought to what he was doing, why he was doing it, or who he was doing it to. All that mattered was the win. His win. His pot. His cufflinks.

He knew that was wrong. The cufflinks hadn’t ever been his; when her daddy died they belonged to Momma, and when she died they belonged to Bart. What really bothered him so much about the inheritance? Why had it been so important to him to lay claim to something he had no business owning? Those were the questions that kept circling his brain, like a vulture in the desert. And slowly the answer came to him, and it stunned him with its clarity – if the cufflinks truly belonged to his brother, then Momma loved Bart more.

He didn’t know what to think. Every ounce of him was in turmoil. Was it even possible, that Momma had loved his brother more than him? Had she ever said or done anything to make him believe that was true? His mind ventured back over the period of time that Momma had been alive and the answer came back loud and clear – No. Of course not. She didn’t love Bart more than him. She might have loved them differently, they were far different children, but she loved them equally. They were her sons, her pride and joy. Why had it taken his whole life to face that question and answer it once and for all? And the truth rose up like a butterfly exiting a cocoon. He was jealous of Bart.

Poor Bart, who had less time to spend with his mother, who was constantly sick as a child,  who almost died when he was just three years old from influenza. ‘Little brother’ who never got to do anything until long after Bret had done it, who was never allowed to go anywhere without Bret’s supervision, who got scolded for everything he got caught at that Bret had gotten away with. As he looked back on his childhood with adult eyes, he realized the foolishness of his jealousy. He had everything his ‘little brother’ had, and more. Two years longer with momma, as a matter of fact.

Bart stirred inside the tent. Bret had no idea how long he had been sitting there waiting for his brother to wake up, but he was glad it hadn’t happened any sooner. Panic and guilt had forced him to face some truths that he hadn’t been willing to face previously. Truths that he had hidden from his entire life. And he felt better than he had in a long time, like a weight had been lifted from his unconscious soul. He had done a terrible, stupid thing, and he would regret it for the rest of his days. But somehow, some way he would make it right with the brother that he had so grievously wronged.

XXXXXXXX

Bart had been exhausted when he fell asleep last night, or rather early this morning, yet he slept restlessly. Later he would remember that he sensed a storm coming and his mind seemed to be preparing him for it. Just for a moment, when he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was and thought he was back at Camp Douglas. Then he saw the front flap of the Maverick tent and shook off the remnants of the war. Of course, they were still in Chloride. Thank God, he thought, they were going to leave the mining camp today. He stretched and yawned, and even though he was tired he was more than ready to pack and move on. He looked over to Bret’s side of the tent and realized that the bedding was undisturbed; Bret hadn’t slept at all last night. Would he still be willing to go?

He crawled out from under the blanket and smelled the coffee _. ’ Good,’_ he thought, _‘if I know Bret he’s already had half a pot and thinking about our next stop.’_ They’d talked about going on to Prescott but nothing had been decided. Maybe they would just head that way and see what they ran into. Bart looked down and realized that he’d fallen asleep in his clothes when he finally collapsed. He chuckled to himself _. ‘Sure makes getting dressed easier.’_

“Hey Bret,” he called to his brother, “Did you leave me any coffee or did you drink it all?” There was no reply from outside and Bart stuck his head through the flap of the tent. Bret was there, sitting and staring into the small fire, but he didn’t move a muscle. It almost looked like he was in a trance. His younger brother waited for some kind of response and Bret finally looked up at him. “Huh?”

Bart smiled. When Bret was this distracted it usually meant that he’d won big. Good. They could start a new leg of their sojourn without worrying about money. “Coffee?” he repeated.

“Oh, sure.” Bret picked up the pot and filled a cup. Bart wandered over to the fire and took the cup from his brother. He was still smiling to himself when Bret intoned “Sit down, we need to talk.”

Bart pulled up the other camp stool and sat across the fire from his brother. “Ok, just how much did you win last night?” Again there was no reply; the older Maverick merely sat and looked at him. What was going on?

Bret picked up another cup and poured one for himself. The last thing he wanted was more coffee, but his stomach was making its presence known and he needed something to shut it up. Now was no time to be worrying about food. He dreaded what was coming but knew he had to say something.

“I didn’t win last night. In fact I lost everything I had.”

Bart was stunned. Their poker playing had been outstanding; the miners in this camp provided no challenge to their skills. Short of a major disaster they both thought that their talent at the game they loved would go unimpeded here in Chloride. It was unthinkable that Bret had lost, much less lost it all.

“What happened? Why didn’t you wake me?”

There was a small sound that emanated from Bret. It was almost a snort. “Why? I didn’t need your help to lose.” He regretted the tone of his answer as soon as he said it.

Bart looked guilty for asking such a ridiculous question. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He paused for a moment, trying to explain his inquiry. “Another player would have changed the draw.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn’t the cards.” Bret took a deep breath and went on. “It was the idiot playing the cards.”

Neither of them spoke. In the distance they could hear the thump of a miner’s pickaxe as it dug into loose rock. Bart was almost afraid to ask the next question. “What about your thousand dollar bill?”

“Gone” came the swift reply.

“Does that mean we’re not leaving?”

“I’ve got no money and no way to make any here. Why would we go?” Bret searched his brother’s face for sympathy, guilt, pity, anything. Bart turned his head away and said quietly “I’ve got enough to stake you. You’ll make it back.”

_‘Uh huh,’_ Bret thought, _‘wait till you find out what else I lost.’_

Bart was saying something that Bret only heard part of. “. . . .  in Prescott. We’ve been here too long. Let’s get packed up and ride. Ought to be there in two or three days. It’ll be great to sleep in a real bed again.” Bart looked at his brother optimistically. “You know what Pappy always said about leavin’ town when the money runs out.”

“I don’t think that Pappy ever said anything to cover this situation.” Bret was positive that he hadn’t.

“Brother Bret, there is something peculiar going on. What’s got you in such a state?” There was a tone of sheer desperation in Bart’s voice. Bret was dodging whatever was bothering him, and it must be something way bigger than losing money at poker.

_‘Here it comes,’_ thought Bret _. ‘I can’t put this off any longer.’_

Bart stood up and stared down at his brother. His voice was now deadly serious. “Spit it out, Bret.”

“The cufflinks?”

Bart shrugged his shoulders. “In the usual place.”

Bret braced himself for Bart’s reaction. “No, they’re not. I lost them in the game last night.”

Something was horribly wrong. Bart’s head was spinning and he felt sick to his stomach. Just a moment ago the day was dawning bright and sunny, now the sky seemed to have turned pitch black. He couldn’t have heard his brother correctly. He stared instinctively in Bret’s direction and tried to determine what his older brother had actually said. He staggered back from his standing position and landed hard on the ground. He tried to speak but nothing would come out. Had he died? Was he dead? Is that why the words he heard made no conceivable sense?

“Wha . . . what?”

Bret Maverick was filled with the most awful shame imaginable. Bart looked like he had just been shot.  Actually he looked better the time he was shot. Bret couldn’t begin to envision the myriad of emotions running through his brother. He had to explain it to Bart – had to make him understand how and what and why and where. But how could he do that when he didn’t completely understand? So he did the only thing he could do at that exact moment. He said it again.

“I lost them at poker last night.”

Bart picked himself up off the ground and scrambled back into the tent. He grabbed his saddlebags and went straight to the hidden pocket.  It was still there. The black bag he kept the cufflinks in. With shaking hands he pulled the bag out and opened it. There was nothing inside. Slowly the understanding of what Bret was trying to tell him sank in. The. Cufflinks. Were. Gone.

He dropped the saddlebags but grasped the empty bag in his hand. This must be a dream. No, a nightmare. That’s it, a nightmare. He pinched his arm and waited to wake up. After a few minutes he realized he was awake. This was not a nightmare, this was the truth. The only physical proof he had that his mother ever existed. And it was gone.

Why wasn’t he dead? Why hadn’t he been killed last night when the wheel on Fuzzy’s wagon broke and the entire wagon crashed down around them? Death would have been less painful than what he felt right now. And the worst part of it? His own brother had sold him out.

He staggered back out of the tent. Bret was still sitting in front of the fire, right where he was when this hallucination began. The look on his brother’s face told him everything he needed to know. Bart couldn’t imagine a more wretched Maverick in the world, and for the first time in his entire life he didn’t care. At that moment, Bret’s actions were unforgivable. Something inside him went cold and he sank back down to the ground. He sat for what seemed like an eternity while Bret started explaining. He heard little fragments of sentences: “. . . . watching him all night . . . . couldn’t understand . . . . supposed to be collateral . . . . wouldn’t give me anytime . . . . will get them back, I swear to you . . . .” At that point he stopped hearing his brother’s voice. He stopped hearing anything and just sat and stared.

Everything that he could think of poured out of Bret. Pleading, promising, begging, beseeching, appealing, anything to penetrate the icy stare and demeanor that Bart had assumed. Bret wasn’t even sure that Bart heard him, but he kept it up anyway, trying desperately to make things right between them again. Finally Bart stood up and went back into the tent. When he emerged with his saddlebags, bedroll and saddle Bret knew that what he was attempting was useless. He became silent and still, finally understanding that Bart was leaving and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The younger Maverick saddled his horse and mounted without saying a word. Bret finally could stand it no longer and grabbed the reins as Bart started past him. The gelding came to an abrupt halt.

“Have you heard anything I said?” Bret pleaded. Silence. Bart didn’t even look at him. “Don’t do this, Bart. I’ll make it right. I’ll get them back, I swear.”

Bart and his horse stood frozen and Bret made one last attempt to reach him. “Don’t leave like this. I’m your brother.”

Bart finally turned his head to look at Bret, and with an icy quality in his voice stated flatly “My brother is dead.”

 


	10. Building a New Bridge

It didn’t take long for word to get around about what happened between the Maverick brothers. Later that morning both Big John and Jacob came by, one offering sympathy and the other a job. The sympathy was accepted and so was the employment. Jacob needed someone to help him with the blacksmithing that he still did for the miners and Bret was flat broke. Much as he hated anything that remotely resembled work, it sometimes proved necessary just to survive. Besides, it would take him a few days to make enough to get his poker funds reestablished. Then he could go back to playing cards and keeping an eye on Perry and Walker.

It had finally come to him, sometime after Bart left, that Perry and Walker must be tied together in one way or another. The timing of Perry’s arrival and Walker’s sudden interest in poker seemed awfully suspicious. He would think more on this tonight; for now he had to help Jacob shoe horses. Or whatever else was required of him.

The work was hard, hot and dirty. By the end of the day Bret felt like someone had been beating him, both physically and mentally. It was the only way to get back on his feet that he could think of and it would at least keep his mind occupied and off of Bart.

It was almost dark when he returned to the tent and the only thing he wanted to do was sleep. He was surprised to see Lewis sitting waiting for him, fresh hot coffee ready. Lewis had always made him slightly nervous; maybe because he could outdraw any man in camp. Bret was nothing if not a died-in-the-wool coward. Better to not make this particular man angry.

“Coffee?” Lewis held out an empty cup. “Sure,” Bret answered, sitting down and pouring some. Might as well drink more coffee, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep anytime soon. They sat that way for a few minutes until Lewis finally spoke. “Heard what happened. Mighty big shame. Your brother is a good poker player.” He paused to see if Bret had anything to say. Hearing no response, Lewis continued. “Somethin’ funny about that Perry kid. Can’t put my finger on it but I don’t trust ‘em.” He nodded at Bret. “You spot anything last night?”

Maverick shook his head ‘no.’ “I watched him all night. Couldn’t catch him doing anything wrong.”

Lewis squinted and dumped the rest of his coffee in the fire. ‘Still . . . . somethin’s off. Can’t accuse him of anything without proof. Thought I’d check with you and get a feel for it.”

The feeling of suspicion that Bret felt for Perry’s card playing resurfaced. “You’re right, there’s something going on there. I just haven’t spotted it yet.”

Lewis got up from the fire as he spoke. “I’ll let you go. Sure you’re tuckered out after today. Poker tomorrow?”

Bret nodded yes. “Soon as I get a stake.”

“Look, can’t be too careful in my profession. Can’t afford many friends.” He paused and looked Bret right in the eyes. “Consider you one of ‘em. You need anything, you let me know.”

That was unexpected. Bret nodded at the gunslinger in thanks and acknowledgment. “Haven’t got a spare brother lying around anywhere, do you?”

Even Lewis laughed at the question. “Nope. Don’t have one of those. But if I see one I’ll send him your way.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to break a new one in. Just have to figure a way to get mine back.”

With that exchange, Lewis turned and walked toward the saloon. Bret watched him go into the darkness and put out the fire. Then he went to bed.

XXXXXXXX

Two or three days passed before Jacob had enough money to pay Bret. By that time every bone in his body hurt, and his head didn’t feel much better. He kept playing the whole fiasco with Bart and the cufflinks in his mind and he kept coming back to the same conclusion: he should have walked away from the game. Losing was one thing, being totally stupid about it was another. There were only two things in the world that were important – poker and family. And family beat poker by a mile. Too bad he hadn’t understood that lesson sooner.

On the fourth day Jacob paid Bret for his help and Maverick retired from the blacksmithing profession. He got cleaned up, glad to be rid of the smell of fire and iron, and got dressed. It would be the first time he walked into the saloon since that night and he didn’t want any distractions. He would do whatever he had to in order to make sure he never had to work for Jacob or anybody else again.

Because of his limited poker stake Bret had to play the small games at first. It only took three nights of playing at the less significant tables to have built his ‘poke’ back up enough to be waiting at the more familiar  table when Clete and the ‘boys’ arrived.

“Well, Maverick, I see you survived,” drawled Perry as they all took a seat. “Seńor Bret, it is good to see you again. So sorry about Seńor Bart,” Reuben greeted him. Lewis simply nodded and Jacob motioned Walker over with a bottle. As Walker handed out glasses and started pouring drinks, Bret covered his with his hand and smiled at the bartender. “No thanks, Walker. None for me.”

 

“What’s the matter, Bret?” Clete asked. “You had a drink the last time we played.”

 

“Yes, and you see what happened, don’t you? No thanks, boys, once was enough.”  Once again Bret smiled. He wanted to make sure that everyone knew there were no hard feelings. He wanted everyone to feel loose and comfortable, so that he could figure out what exactly was going on. No mistakes or ego trips this time, he was playing to get his brother back. He didn’t intend to lose again.

 

For a while, everything went pretty smoothly. Bret wasn’t pressing or bluffing, just trying to get a real feel for the way Clete and the others were playing. No one seemed to be any different but Perry; he was nervous and out of sorts, raising when he shouldn’t have and rarely winning. He was almost a different poker player. Bret was smart and sharp and cunning, catching the tiniest little flicker in someone’s countenance and the smallest difference in their betting. He played with ease and skill, and none of the absolute need to win that he had felt the previous week. He saw everything that Perry did and remembered every move he made. And still he couldn’t catch anything out of the ordinary.

 

They’d been playing for about six hours when something finally occurred to him. The night he lost the cufflinks he had been constantly drinking coffee. Which meant that Walker was always at the table refilling his cup. Tonight he wasn’t drinking anything, and the bartender was pretty well confined to staying behind the bar. Was Walker spotting the cards to Perry when he came over with the coffee pot? Only one way to find out, but it wouldn’t happen tonight. Bret had to have a whole evening to test his theory and see if the two men he distrusted were really running some kind of a con game on him.


	11. Don Quixote

Every night the same dream woke him. He was holding the cufflinks that Momma had given him when his brother Bret appeared from nowhere and grabbed them out of his hands. As Bret turned to walk away Bart took out his gun and shot him. He stood over his brother and watched him die. And then he woke up in a cold sweat, shaking and breathing hard.

Nothing changed the dream. It didn’t matter where he slept, or how long, or how tired he was when he fell asleep, sometime during the night he had it. After that there was no more rest and he was wide-awake at the most peculiar hours. After the first three or four days he accepted it as a consequence of his hasty action with Bret.

He rode aimlessly that first day, trying to accomplish nothing more than a quick exit from Chloride. Then he headed for Prescott, hoping to find anything there that would flush the nightmare from his sub-conscious mind. He had trouble reconciling the vile act with the protective and loving brother he knew. Nothing seemed to help; no matter what he tried to occupy his psyche with, he kept coming back to the treachery.  Momma’s gift was gone; his brother had stolen it from him.

As he rode through Skull Valley on the way to the booming town he started to remember all the times that Bret nursed him back to health when he was ill. How Bret always tried to talk Pappy out of punishing him for something he did wrong. How they stuck up for each other in the war and after, each one defending the other when they were most vulnerable. How many times might someone have put a bullet in his back if Bret wasn’t there to stop it?

By the time he reached Prescott he was no longer angry, but the dream hadn’t subsided. He was beginning to wonder if he had been too hasty in leaving Chloride and too harsh with his words. What was done was done, he reasoned, and he was going to live with it. At least for now. He still needed time to get over the resentment he felt toward Bret.

Which is how he came to be sitting in the Prescott Poker Room and Saloon holding a King high straight when Anderson Garrett walked in. Anderson was a tall man, older, with reddish brown hair and a hooked nose, and was dressed better than anyone sitting at the table, including Bart. He walked over and stood behind the empty chair. “Got room for one more?” he asked.

Bart nodded yes. “Sure, for the next game.” He laid down his straight. “King high, gentlemen. Anybody else?” There was a general shaking of the head ‘no’ around the table and Bart raked in the pot. Anderson pulled out his chair and sat down. “Table stakes?” he inquired.

One of the other men nodded. “$50 ante, no limit pot, 5 card draw.”

Anderson pulled out his wallet and a stack of money. He tossed a $50 bill into the middle of the table and introduced himself. “Names Anderson Garrett. Just got in last night. Everybody local?” Everyone shook their head yes but Bart.

“Bart Maverick. And no, I’m from Texas.”

“Maverick,” Anderson repeated. “From Little Bend?”

“Yep.”

“With a Pa named Beauregard?”

Again Bart answered a curt “Yep.”

“And a poker playing brother?”

“Not currently,” came the reply. A look of inquisitiveness spread across Anderson Garrett’s countenance but he said nothing. Finally Bart volunteered, “We had a falling out.”

All emotion drained from the newcomer’s face. “Sorry to hear that,” he replied. “I played him once or twice in Cheyenne. Top notch cardsharp. Funny fella.”

Bart thought carefully before answering. “Oh, he’s a funny fella, alright. Just not sure he can be trusted.” The recent circumstances of the Maverick conflict ran through Bart’s mind as he said the words. Did he really mean them?

Garrett smiled, a sorrowful smile, and answered Bart, “Careful, son. That’s mighty harsh words about your own kin.”

“Sorry. That’s the way it is right now.” It was Bart’s turn to shuffle the cards and deal, which he did without saying another word. The game resumed and the focus shifted from familial relations back to poker. Bart won that round, too, with Anderson taking the next one. He played very much like Bret, smooth and easy, with nothing fancy and no drama. They fell into an effortless and comfortable rhythm, only occasionally letting one of the other players at the table win a hand. Bart was able to shift his focus from cards back to the only real things on his mind – what he was going to do about Bret. And what he was going to do next.

The next time anything of importance was said, it was by Anderson. The day had passed quite quickly and it was well past supper time. “Gentlemen, it’s time to excuse myself for dinner.” He turned his attention to Bart. “Mr. Maverick, would you care to join me?”

For the first time in several days Bart was actually hungry. “Mr. Garrett, I think I would. Thank you.”

They both rose from the table in the saloon and walked across the street to the Grand Hotel and its dining room. Once seated, Garrett ordered a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. Just to be sociable Bart took a drink. Dinner ordered, they proceeded to talk about traveling the country and playing poker for a living. The more they conversed the more Bart liked the older man and felt comfortable with him. He seemed more like Pappy than Bret, and they were well on their way to becoming friends by the time the meal was finished. The bill was paid and they stepped outside for a cigar. Bart had just leaned up against the hotel front rail when Anderson asked him, “So what caused the rift between you and Bret?”

Bart’s relaxed feeling diminished. He’d just spent a pleasant hour with this man and he didn’t want to reopen the ‘Bret wound.’ Yet he didn’t think he could make any headway in his feeling of betrayal without discussing it with someone. Anderson Garrett was a relative stranger who might be able to give him a more objective viewpoint on the whole situation. Slowly and carefully he told the story, making sure to explain how important the gift from Momma had been and just how cautious he was with it. By the time he finished telling it the night had grown dark and the cigars were long since smoked. He hesitated and decided not to describe the persistent dream. They stood in silence for a few moments until Anderson spoke. In his voice Bart could hear understanding, and pity, and something else – regret.

“Many years ago,” he started, “I had a brother, too. Mine was younger than me and wilder, and my whole clan feared that Simon would get himself killed before he could outgrow it. One day he flirted with a pretty girl with a mean-tempered boyfriend who was in a bad mood and came looking for him. I’d just left town that morning; my brother and I’d had words since he wanted to go with me and I’d said no. Simon never was one to back away from a fight and the cowpoke pushed him into one. By the time I got back Simon was dead and in the ground.” He lowered his head and Bart could hear the emotion in his voice. “If I’d just taken him with me he might still be alive. If I’d been there he mightn’t been in town flirting with a girl he didn’t know. Any number of things could have kept me from losing my brother.” He stopped for a minute and seemed to regain his composure. Finally he raised his head and looked Bart in the eyes. ”That’s why I was interested when you brought up the ‘falling out’ with your brother. Don’t let it sit like it is and lose him when you maybe could prevent it.” Anderson finished talking and Bart started to say something, then stopped. After a minute he started again.

“I hear you. I just need some time to digest everything.” He spoke from his heart when he added, ”I know he didn’t mean for it to happen like it did. That part I understand. He’s always acted like maybe he thought I meant more to Momma ‘cause she left the cufflinks for me. That’s not why she did it. When I was little I thought they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Momma made me a promise when I was sick as a dog that she’d give ‘em to me someday if I got well. I don’t think she ever told Pappy or Bret about her promise. That’s why I had ‘em. They were Momma’s gift to a little boy who needed a reason to live.”

Bart couldn’t see Garrett’s eyes in the dark but he could feel his gaze. “Why didn’t you tell that to your brother?”

“Don’t know,” Bart shot back. “Maybe . . . .  maybe I was just plain scared. Thought he’d make fun of me for wanting them so much. Didn’t think about what it made him feel like when Pappy gave them to me.”

“And now?” the older man asked.

This time Bart hesitated before answering. “I think that maybe in a couple days I should ride back to Chloride. Straighten everything out.” He grinned, and with a lighter tone in his voice said, “Before Bret gets a chance to get himself hurt.”

Someone exited the hotel and the momentary light illuminated Anderson’s face. He looked like a man at peace. “Good.” He turned to go back over to the saloon. “How do you feel about some poker, Mr. Maverick?”

Bart nodded before remembering that he couldn’t be seen in the dark. ”Sounds like a capital idea, Mr. Garrett.”

Both men walked back over to the Prescott Poker Room and made their way inside.

 


	12. And the Wheel Goes Round and Round

It was 5 a.m. when Bret came back to his tent and tried to sleep. As tired as he was he kept thinking about ways to ‘catch’ Walker and Perry at their game. And just what he would do to them when he did.

Once he had the cufflinks in his possession he intended to head for Prescott. It’d been almost two weeks since Bart left Chloride but Bret was almost certain that he was still in the city. Bart didn’t particularly like to ride alone and tended to stay in one place when he got comfortable. Just how much longer Bret would be in Chloride depended entirely on his plan for the two swindlers.

Since he couldn’t sleep he made coffee. He expected to talk to Clete and Lewis and let them in on his intentions. And Big John should know, too. It was important that those three be aware of what was happening so they could assist if necessary. It was going to take more than just Bret Maverick to nail the two crooks to the wall.

He sat in front of the fire for a long time and thought over the events of the two weeks. His head was on a whole lot straighter than it had been for a while and he knew what was important to him. Pappy. Bart. Uncle Ben and Cousin Beau. His integrity. Poker, but not at the expense of family. He would never make that mistake again. Hopefully he could convince Bart of that.

Finally his mind was peaceful about the direction the next poker game with Perry needed to take. He went to explain his plan to Clete and Lewis. He couldn’t find John, which meant he was off helping someone. Bret would locate him and outline everything later. He walked back to the tent and tried to keep himself busy, cleaning his gun, giving his horse a good rubdown, putting away the coffee pot. Anything to make the time pass. Eventually he was tired and went in to sleep. He dreamt of the successful outcome of tonight’s intrigue and his reconciliation with Bart. And he dreamt of poker, always poker. Winning, of course. He’d had enough of losing for a lifetime. From now on he would never play with anything more valuable than money.

Bret woke with a start and realized it was dark out. He got up and shaved, putting on his best ‘gambling man clothes’ when he was done. Tonight he wanted no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was Bret Maverick, professional gambler. He strapped on his gun belt and then thought better of it. Instead he found his Remington derringer in the inside pocket of his coat and checked for bullets. Good, loaded. Just in case. He slipped it inside the hideout holster he wore under his coat and counted his money. Plenty of bait for the fish he intended to hook. Just as he was ready to leave the tent Big John stuck his head in.

“Come to tell ya I saw Clete this afternoon. He told me about your plans. Are ya sure?” John didn’t indicate whether he meant if Bret was sure about Walker and Perry or sure about the plan. So Bret gave him the best answer to both questions. “Yes.”

The little man stepped inside. “Mighty big risk yer takin’.”

Bret shook his head. “Not really. The big risk was when I used the cufflinks as collateral. There’s not a lot to worry about tonight.” He looked right at John. “That’s why I wanted you and Clete and Lewis in on this. I need somebody to watch Walker and that box he hides behind the counter while I’m baiting Perry. AND help me watch him and Perry while we’re playing. If I’m right, they won’t make their move till it gets late.”

Bret paused momentarily and John questioned “And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not” came the quick reply from Bret.

“You willin’ to bet your life on that?”

Bret laughed outright. “John, I’m not willing to bet my life on anything.” He patted the concealed holster and its small weapon. “I’ve got protection.” He grinned at John. “And friends with itchy trigger fingers.”

Big John smiled himself for a moment and then got serious again. “Don’t go doin’ nothin’ fancy. You’re brother’n rather have you than those cufflinks.”

Bart’s parting words rang in Bret’s ears as he said “I’m not so sure about that.” He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “Almost nine. Better go.”

John nodded and turned to leave. “Let me go first. Set the table so to speak. Maybe get a couple hands in before you get there. See if they’re cheatin’ everybody or just you. Less to be suspicious about.”

“John.” Bret stopped him from exiting the tent. “Thanks for your help. It’s much appreciated.”

Big John nodded his bald head again. “Yep. Got a reputation to maintain.” Bret and John laughed together.

XXXXXXXX

When sufficient time had passed Bret made his way to the saloon. It was loud and crowded, as always, but nobody paid particular attention to him as he entered. He walked up to the bar and greeted the bartender as usual. “Good evening, Walker. Got some coffee ready?”

Walker sensed nothing out of the ordinary and poured Bret a cup. “Sure, Mr. Maverick. You playing tonight?”

_‘In more ways than one,’_ Bret thought. ”Oh, I’m thinkin’ about it. Regulars here?”

“Yes, sir,” Walker replied. “Just started a little while ago.”  He moved to the other end of the bar to pour whiskey for another customer. Bret picked up his cup and sauntered over to the large table.  Lewis, Clete, Big John, Perry and Jacob were just ending a hand. Clete was the winner. Reuben hadn’t yet arrived. Bret tipped his hat and pulled out an empty chair. “Gentlemen, mind if I join you?”

Everyone nodded agreement and Bret sat down. The usual conversation started and they fell into old patterns with the card playing. The only difference was that Bret was keeping a watchful eye on both Perry’s poker and Walker’s attentiveness. Reuben finally arrived, sans tequila, and Walker immediately brought him a bottle. The men had seated themselves at the table so that Walker had to pass behind Bret every time he refilled the coffee or Clete’s glass of whiskey. Bret paid particular attention to the hands they played when that happened; Perry won all of them. They were definitely working together. Bret caught the attention of Lewis and Clete before turning to Big John and nodding.

Several more hands of 5 card draw were played before Bret needed coffee.  Perry played those hands timidly and with a bare minimum of betting; with the next deal Walker brought a whiskey for Clete and the coffee pot. As he walked back to the bar Perry looked up and glanced his way. Something unspoken passed between them and Bret knew he had them. He was the only one that knew the next move; he was dealing and the move was his. Lewis wanted two cards, Clete three. Jacob took three, looked at them and folded. Reuben took one card, John none. Bret discarded three and dealt himself three aces from the bottom of the deck. Knowing how and when to cheat came in handy sometimes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. I Ride Alone

Three days later Bart said goodbye to Anderson Garrett and checked out of the Prescott Grand Hotel. His nightmares ceased the night he told the whole story to the older gambler and hadn’t returned. It was gratifying to go to bed after playing poker and actually sleep. He still wasn’t quite at peace with the events in Chloride but he was certain of one thing – Bret was his brother and always would be. It was time to get the Mavericks back together.

He didn’t have to be in any hurry and it was pleasant just to ride back through Skull Valley. Camping alone wasn’t his choice of accommodations but even that wasn’t so bad after a week of luxury in Prescott. And luxurious it was; he spent most of his time playing poker or dining with Anderson, who preferred the finer things in life. He would miss the great food and good cigars, but most of all the friendship.

Two evenings later he knew it was the last night on the trail. Sometime after sundown tomorrow he would be in Chloride. That started him thinking, wondering if Bret could understand the tenuous state he had been in the morning he left. And what about Bret since Bart had deserted him with no money and no way to make any? What state of mind was he in now?

Those were some of the issues that kept cropping up in Bart’s brain as he lay on the ground and looked at the stars. Were they ever going to be as close as they once were? Or had Bret’s stupidity and Bart’s heartless act torn them apart forever? He hoped not, he reasoned before drifting off to sleep. He was the one that had to fix things; even Cousin Beau couldn’t intervene. Of course it would be difficult for that to happen anyway, since Beau had the audacity to ‘accidentally’ win a medal in the war and Pappy had exiled him to England to teach him a lesson.

The next morning he took his time having coffee and breakfast before saddling up to ride one more day. It was sunny and pleasant and neither he nor his horse seemed to mind too much. Consequently it was very late at night when he finally reached the mining camp town. He rode back to the spot where the Maverick tent was when he left and was relieved to find it still in place. Bret’s horse was there, too, and everything looked the same. Except no Bret. Probably playing poker again, Bart reasoned.

He dismounted and unsaddled his horse. He hesitated to unpack his gear, in case Bret couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive him his hasty departure and rash outburst, so he stowed his belongings on the floor of the tent in a corner. There was still coffee in the pot sitting in the remnants of the fire and Bart sat and poured himself a cup. No matter how many times he made coffee it just didn’t taste as good as Bret’s. He stayed there for a few minutes, his ears readjusting to the noise and vibrations of the camp, and then he heard it. What sounded like a loud argument coming from the saloon. He thought surely he must be hearing things; there was no way that anyone could be loud enough to be heard over the cacophony. No, there was an argument going on, and now he could hear it quite distinctly. As the background noise settled down in that direction he recognized some of the voices. Big John and Jacob the blacksmith and Walker the bartender. Now the voices were shouting and sounded angry. No, really angry. Bart stood up, threw the rest of the coffee away and dropped the coffee cup. There was one voice that stood out from the rest, firm but not irate. Giving instructions. Offering resolutions to the situation. It was his brother’s voice.

Everything went quiet. Then another voice spoke. It sounded young and frightened and was in an accent he didn’t recognize. It seemed to go on forever, droning words that made no sense. Once again Walker’s voice, now frantic and relentless. Big John said something he couldn’t quite understand and then Bret’s voice again, just as calm and persuasive as before. And then a sound that scared the living daylights out of him. Three gunshots in rapid succession.

 

 

 


	14. And to You I Leave Everything

After the shots rang out everything was deathly quiet. Bart took off running towards the saloon with an ice cold fear in his heart. He tried in vain to distinguish any one voice as he ran, searching for Bret’s frantically. He didn’t hear it, and then a tidal wave of sound washed over him and almost drowned him. What if he was too late? What if Bret had been shot, or worse – his mind wouldn’t go there.

Once he reached the saloon doors he had to fight the rapidly exiting miners to get inside. It made him feel like one of the salmon that he’d watched swimming upstream in the Sacramento River. Slowly the flood of men escaping the establishment thinned out and he was able to fight his way nearer to Bret’s favorite table in the back of the saloon. Lewis, Jacob and Reuben all stood together near the end of the bar, surrounding Walker, who was in handcuffs. Handcuffs? Where had those come from? And who was that lying on the floor? Bart struggled past the last of the miners and stopped dead in his tracks. Big John was kneeling on the saloon floor, trying to get a response out of a man stretched out face down. Where was Bret? What had happened? Bart’s mind couldn’t comprehend the whole tableau fast enough to realize the awful truth – the body lying face down was his brother Bret.

Bart pushed his way over to John and reached for his brother. John grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back. “Easy, son, we don’t know how bad he’s hurt yet.”

“Don’t care,” stammered Bart, barely audible. “Got to get to him.” John released the hold he had on the younger Maverick and Bart staggered forward. “Bret . . . . Bret.”

With all the caring that Bart could manage he turned his brother over and held his breath. What if it was too late? What if he’d lost his only brother forever, just like Anderson? How could he ever live with himself? Then he saw it, the slowly spreading splotch of blood on Bret’s jacket, just below his left shoulder. And the slashing wound on the temple, enough to draw a small crease of blood and knock the consciousness out of the gambler. Bart expelled a large ‘whoosh’ of air as he realized that, although wounded and likely to be in pain for some time, his brother was still alive. ‘Thanks, God,’ Bart thought to the deity. Out loud he uttered, “Brother Bret, wake up. Now’s no time for a nap.” He looked over at Big John and mouthed the word “Doctor?”

“Already sent for.” It was Jacob who answered him. “Along with the undertaker for this fella.” He pointed down at the body on the floor. Bart finally took a good look at the corpse and still didn’t recognize it. “Who is he?”

“His partner” came Jacob’s response. “My brother!” cried Walker, who seemed to come to life. “He killed my brother!” He glared at Lewis, who still had a pistol in his hand. Lewis looked Walker right in the eyes and Walker seemed to shrink. “Seemed only fair. He tried to kill Maverick.”

Bart turned his attention to his brother, who started to show signs of life. “Lie still, Bret, doctor’s on the way.”

A small smile creased Bret’s face and he half-opened his eyes and winced. “Ouch. Brother Bart, you came to our little charade.”

“Is that what this was? Looks more like a gunfight to me,” Bart responded. “You’ve ruined your good coat, you know.”

“Don’t care. Almost ruined my brother,” Bret managed to whisper before closing his eyes again. “Where’s that doctor?” Bart demanded, just as the physician arrived. The doctor kneeled down and examined the flesh wound, then the shoulder wound. “Somebody get him out of here,” Dr. Woods ordered. “I need to get that bullet out of him.”

Bart and Reuben picked Bret up and carried him through the saloon and back to Big John’s tent, the one and only Chloride resident who owned an actual  bed. They laid him down gently and Bart turned to Doc Woods, who’d followed them over. “Won’t need to knock him out,” Bart offered. “Mavericks pass out at the sight of blood, especially their own.” He leaned down to his brother and whispered quietly, “You be a good boy now, Brother Bret. We’ve got some talkin’ to do.”   Bart laid his hand on Bret’s good arm and squeezed. Bret kept his eyes closed but smiled weakly. Bart turned to the doctor. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” Dr. Woods nodded and removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Bart stepped outside the tent to find Big John waiting for him with a glass and a bottle. “Thought you might need some of this to steady your nerves.” He offered Bart the glass, which the younger Maverick gladly took. John poured and Bart drank. Big John was right, it did help steady him; he was determined to hear the whole story from someone, everyone, anyone.

While the doctor removed the bullet, John, Jacob, Clete and Lewis filled Bart in on everything that happened since his departure. The more he heard the more uncomfortable he got. This was all his fault; if he hadn’t deserted his brother like he did none of it would had have taken place. Clete did his best to dispel that notion. “Don’t be blamin’ yerself, lad, yer brother smelled somethin’ fishy right from the start. It just took him a while to figure it out. He’d a done that if you were here or not.”

Lewis nodded in agreement. “We talked and he knew there was somethin’ goin’ on there that none of us could see. He was determined to find out what.”

“Besides, he knew if Perry and Walker had swindled him they sure swindled all of us.” Jacob paused for effect. “And he was determined to get your cufflinks back.”

Bart was about to respond when the doctor emerged from the tent. “Bret?” was Bart’s only question.

“He’ll be all right,” Doc Woods answered. “A lot of blood but not a lot of damage. Keep him from using the shoulder for a while; there’ll be some pain but it should heal just fine.”

Relief flooded through Bart. “Thanks, Doc.” He turned to face the men standing around him and shook each hand in turn. “Thanks, all of you. I’m glad he had you to help him.”

Lewis reached over and handed Bart a small object, wrapped in a handkerchief. The cufflinks. “He wanted to make sure you got these. Good thing he’s got a brother to take care of him.”

Bart grinned for the first time all night. “Yes he does.”

XXXXXXXX

It took several weeks for Bret’s wounds to heal. Bart took good care of him, cooking and changing the bandages to keep everything clean. After dark Bart played poker, taking over Bret’s spot at the main table. Once he was feeling better, most nights Bret accompanied him to the saloon and sat drinking coffee and gossiping ‘poker talk’ with the group. Jacob regaled them with tales of Bret’s stint as his blacksmithing striker and Lewis talked endlessly about the days he had been a sheriff. Clete drank more than he talked and Reuben would appear for a few days and then vanish again. Eventually a new bartender took over, an older fellow named Murphy who caught on quickly that the table Big John played at housed the best poker players and the best tippers. He kept Clete’s glass, Reuben’s bottle and Bret’s coffee cup filled. Once the shoulder stopped bothering him so much Bret rejoined the group and filled the seat that Perry’s death had left empty. It was an odd group, since most of the miners’ lost regularly to Bart or Bret but none of them seemed to mind. Everybody knew they were just passing time until the Mavericks could ride out of camp.

Finally the night came that the subject of leaving actually reared its head in conversation. Murphy had just filled all the empty cups and glasses at the table and gone back behind the bar. Bret won the pot and reached to rake it in with his left hand. For the first time he didn’t wince. Clete noticed the act and the next thing heard was his gravelly voice. “Hmmmpf. Didn’t have any trouble pickin’ up that pot. Must be just about time to leave, huh?” Bret and Bart exchanged looks and realized that Clete was right. It was time to go.

They still had some unfinished business with each other that neither had been willing to mention before now. Bart lit a cigar and offered it to Bret, then lit another for himself. They walked slowly back to the tent and Bart pulled the stools out to the fire and sat down. Bret sat on his stool and each waited for the other to start.  At last Bart cleared his throat and looked across the flames at Bret. “Thought I lost you, ya know.”

“Yep.” This conversation wasn’t going to be easy. Bart stalled as long as he could and finally said, “Glad I didn’t.”

“Yep.” Bret turned his head away from his brother and continued “Are you?”

Now it was Bart’s turn. “Yep.”

Bret gave a small chuckle and asked the question he’d waited his whole life to get an answer to. “Why were those damn cufflinks so important?”

That opened the floodgates. Bart explained the promise that Momma made to him when he was so sick with influenza and how they came to be the only thing that proved Belle Maverick ever existed. He told Bret all about meeting Anderson Garrett in Prescott and the bond of friendship that developed between them. And he relayed the tale that Anderson told him about losing his own brother Simon. He stopped there for a minute and let everything sink in. Things were a lot clearer to both of them now. He didn’t tell Bret about his dreams. Even between brothers some things were too personal to share.

“You know the rest. I got back here just in time to hear you get shot. Don’t plan on doin’ that again anytime soon, do you?”

Bret laughed at the question. “Wasn’t planning on doin’ it that time. Remember, it hurt me a lot more than it hurt you.”

They were both silent for a few minutes as they sat and stared into the fire. Bret finally told Bart, “I chewed on this for a long time. I guess I was always jealous that Momma gave you something she didn’t give me. I couldn’t understand why she ignored me, her oldest.” He hesitated to continue, then looked away from his brother again and went on. There was raw emotion in his voice as he said “I thought it meant she loved you more.” In that instant Bart knew how Bret had been hurt by his mother’s desperate gambit to keep her youngest son alive. If Bart had known the extent of the pain inflicted on the oldest Maverick boy he would have explained the simple promise a long time ago.

“Sorry that you never knew the real reason,” Bart offered.

It was the olive branch that Bret was looking for. He grinned at his younger brother and pulled out a cigar. “Does that mean I’m not dead?”

Bart shook his head at Bret’s reference to his parting remark. “For now. But don’t push me too far. I may have to decide you’re dead again sometime in the future.” They both laughed until their sides hurt.

XXXXXXXX

Almost six weeks after they first rode into Chloride, the brothers Maverick struck their tent, packed their gear and saddled their horses. They rode out of camp after bidding farewell to John, Clete, Lewis, Jacob, Reuben, Murphy and Fuzzy Smith. They headed back towards Prescott, Bart hoping that Anderson Garret was still in residence. He wanted Bret to meet him.

They rode in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. A short trip to make a quick poker stake had turned into a life-altering journey, something neither expected when they headed for Chloride. Bart broke the silence.

“I never meant for you to think the cufflinks were more important than you.”

“I know.”

“Think we need to explain this all to Cousin Beau? If he ever comes back from England?”

Bret pondered that idea for a minute. “Yeah, I think we better. We put him in the middle too many times and he never understood why or what we were fighting about.”

“Neither did we,” Bart answered. A few minutes passed and Bart felt the need to make amends one more time.

“Sorry that Momma left me the gift and didn’t leave one for you.”

Bret smiled as he turned to his brother, riding by his side. “But she did, you know.”

Bart was perplexed. “She did? What did she give you?”

“She gave me a brother.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
